Scarf
by RubyBelle
Summary: He was smiling placidly when he said that. "Just a little headache, nothing to worry about."
1. Scarf

**disclaimer:** trust me, you'd know if i owned tenipuri. i'd forget the tennis part of the equation and just go straight to gay sex part. lots and lots of gay sex. yummy.  
**contents:** emoness, some sort of black fluff, words... oh, yeah. i use the word "love".  
**a/n:** ummm… well, i was watching tenimyu and there's this scene where rikkai appears in uniforms and sanada's the only one without a scarf. so i looked through my manga and saw that he actually WAS the only one without a scarf. and then yaoi popped into my head. so, yeah. this was born.

**Scarf

* * *

**

He could remember it perfectly.

It hadn't been that long, anyway. Or maybe it had. Looking back inside the darkness of his mind, it felt like those days where they spent running silently alongside each other was eons ago, when, if he actually looks on a calendar and flips the marked pages to find the shaky red circle he had drawn on that day, it was actually only four months ago. Not even half a year.

That confused him. He would stare at the calendar above his bed with a empty heart and think over how many things seemed to happen in such a small amount of time. Years had never held as much events as the past four months had. He had never felt so many emotions at one time, nor had he ever felt so devoid of such emotions. His thoughts had never ran away with his logic so many times, and he had never pushed himself, both mentally and physically, as much as he had for the past four months. Never.

So when he sits there and thinks, aside from pondering how long such a short time had been, he also tries to block out the second half of his memories from that day. The first half was perfectly acceptable—enjoyable, even. Just not the second half.

The day had started well. Average. There was classes like any other day, the only difference being the tranquil air of relief that was always apparent after the last exam had finished for the current year. The tennis club practice had been canceled due to snow and not many people seemed to mind, what with the tournaments and season being over. So, since there wasn't anything else to do, Sanada, Yukimura and Yanagi all decided to just head to the station. Their group of friends had not yet extended to the rest of the regulars, although some of them thought it would be fun to just keep contact every now and again. Yukimura seemed to mind that just a bit, but never said anything about it. In fact, he wanted to get home quickly because he said he had a slight headache.

He was smiling placidly when he said that. "Just a little headache, nothing to worry about."

They believed him and left for the station.

Yukimura had pulled Sanada behind when they were nearing the station, complaining of the worsening pounding in his head. Yanagi informed them that he would be going ahead, and Sanada agreed with him, thinking that it would be best if he bought Yukimura something along the lines of tea for his headache. As Yanagi headed for the station, head low in his scarf due to the wind and bitter cold, Sanada lead Yukimura into an alley vending machine for him to choose his preferred beverage.

He never even got to put his money into the machine. Before Yukimura could even say which one he wanted, his dark eyes widened horribly and a low, strangled sound emanated from deep in his throat. Sanada hadn't actually taken much notice for he was busy with looking for his wallet in his book bag, but then he felt his hands, tightened into feebly twitching claws, gripping onto his scarf for balance, and his heart skipped a beat. He felt as if ice water had been poured down him back and he grabbed him by his shoulders, trying desperately to hold him up as Yukimura visibly lost feeling in his limbs. Helplessly, he crumpled into a heap against the machine, landing in the dirty snow and pulling off Sanada's scarf and he lost consciousness rapidly.

Sanada's mind could not have been more scrambled. He scratched at his jacket, fumbling for his cell phone to call someone, anyone, for help, quickly, before someone worse happened, before the cold got to him, before anything. Perhaps he was in luck, for Yanagi answered quickly, possibly knowing that there was an emergency, because he hadn't even bought his ticket yet.

Yanagi's voice was cool and analytical, a sad attempt to soothe Sanada as he sat there and gripped Yukimura's freezing cold hands with his own frosty, sweating hands. He tried to convince him that all would be well and that, as soon as they hung up, he should quickly bring him to the nearest hospital as Yanagi left the station to meet up with him.

Sanada agreed hastily, wrapping his own plaid scarf around Yukimura's now shivering body—was that a good sign or a bad one, Sanada couldn't stop to think, he couldn't think at all—and picking him up easily—that couldn't be good, could it, he was so thin, that headache must've caused such pain for a longer time that he was letting on—sprinting to the hospital Yanagi had told him about.

He didn't know if he was surprised or not at the sudden appearance of the entire regulars there. How long had he been running? How fast had they? Yanagi must've called them. Did it matter? No, nothing did. The doctor took Yukimura in with a straight face, seemingly not caring about whether or not their precious buchou lived or not. Yagyuu had provided information for the rest of them, having either known, heard or whatever about Yukimura's condition.

"It is a disease closely related to Guillian-Barré Syndrome, which is an auto-immune disease," he told them all simply. "First, mobility in the hands and feet are lost, then slowly it spreads throughout the entire body. When it reaches"—_when_—"the respiratory muscles, it cuts off breathing, making the patient unable to talk, eat, or breathe. If not treated when the disease first surfaces in two weeks, the patient may die."

Kirihara, the young one, was the one to ask the question everyone wanted to hear. "How long will it take for him to recover?"

Yagyuu lowered his head, possibly peering over his glasses, or maybe just avoiding Sanada's intense gaze. "If the treatment goes well, one month. If not, almost a year. If in one year it is not treated, then—"

The punch Sanada had thrown into the wall was drowned out by another banging sound, doors flinging open. Apparently, the blank-faced doctor finally thought that Yukimura was important enough for something to happen, for he was hooked up on a respiratory machine, the mask over his now-peaceful face, the soft and pale one that Sanada shamelessly watched in classes, looking so perfectly serene that, if you had taken off the disgusting mask and removed the drug- and saline-filled IVs, you could've mistaken for sleeping.

Unable to hold in his feelings anymore, unable to properly think and form a sentence that could show his thoughts and emotions and wants and needs properly, so that Yukimura could hear them and wake up and speak again, smile again, tell them all again that there was nothing to worry about again, tell them that they needed to work harder and that he was proud of them regardlessly, Sanada twisted around, shouting into the corridor after his buchou, his friend, his unrequited lover, "Yukimura! We'll be waiting for you, undefeated!"

And then he bowed his head, barely aware of the soft patting on his shoulder, Yanagi's other sad attempt to soothe him, trying even harder than ever to hold in the wave of emotions that he barely ever felt, that he never wanted nor needed. He was biting his lip, holding back a burning pain in his eyes, watching his feet and wishing that he could've done more for Yukimura, could've given him more than a ride to the hospital and a plaid scarf.


	2. Regardless

**disclaimer:** if tenipuri was mine, ryoma'd always be sweating for _another_ reason...  
**contents:** more black fluff, sick!yukimura, and relatively full chapter.  
**a/n:** don't start thinking that i made this for YOUR entertainment. really. i wanted to continue this, because, well, i already copy-pasted, highlighted and studied articles on guillian-barré syndrome and, i mean... yukimura drooling looks like such an stimulating prospective, doesn't it? :D

**Regardless

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**

It took a week for Sanada to get enough courage to visit Yukimura again. Since that rapid-fire, vague, frenzied and emotional day, the one circled in red and burnt into the back of his mind, the rest of the regulars and even other, unimportant and unmemorable classmates had gone to see the rapidly-worsening tennis buchou. The golf one, Yagyuu—he had lied, Sanada knew. Yukimura was showing no positive progress, only negative. Slowly, Yanagi had told Sanada, his cool voice betraying just the tiniest bit of unease, Yukimura was losing his ability to breathe, and no one knew when it would end or how to stop it.

So, after one week, one long week of sitting in classes and listening to blank-faced teachers drone on about something or another useless thing, one long week of sitting on his bed, watching the calendar and wondering if he could make that shaky red circle just disappear, Sanada finally accepted Yanagi's fourth offer to see Yukimura with him.

He wished he hadn't done so.

Yukimura was in horrible condition. It was extremely difficult to believe that just one week ago, just one simple week, seven days, that the dark-haired boy laying in the hospital bed and attached to so many machines that you wanted to look away was a normal, pleasant, smiling boy. That he had joked with friends, that he had complained about exams, that he had lived a perfectly ordinary life. He couldn't believe it, he couldn't bear it, he didn't want to see it, he didn't want to know it.

Yanagi had been an exceptional help for the past week, and he just further proved himself by encouraging the black-capped and stone-faced fukubuchou into the room, reminding him lightly that he would be waiting outside and, if he needed him or wanted him, Sanada would just have to say it, that all he had to do was admit he couldn't handle the sight of a weakened Yukimura, all he had to do was ask for help.

Sanada almost left the room the moment he walked in. His heart had somehow stopped for three seconds, and his stomach had crumpled into itself, as if it couldn't even begin to digest the sight. Yukimura was laying in the bed, sweating from by both the high fever caused by his immune system attacking itself and the exertion of trying to breathe with almost his entire body in a state of parylyzation. It hurt Sanada to remember that he would be getting progressively worse for another week, maybe two. Yukimura's pale hands were gripping the pale green bed cloths, his knuckles white from tension, and there was line of drool running from the corner of his now bone-white lips, which were parted slightly to aid in gasping air.

Pulling off his hat and sinking into the bedside chair, Sanada diverted his gaze to his feet, eyes wide and body chilling. His breathing hitched as he tried to hold back the wave of feelings, and he studied his shoes and the white linoleum with an interest that could only be born of trying to ignore the situation at hand.

A soft sound was emitted from the bed and Sanada snapped his head up, watching Yukimura as he smiled feebly and gazed at him with his dark and glassy eyes.

Sanada tried to look comforting to no avail. Yukimura did better. Ashamed, he quickly brought a white hand up to his mouth and wiped away the spit, apologizing lightly, informing Sanada—much to his heart-wrenching detestation—that he had been unable to control most of his body due to the syndrome. He also further explained that what he had wasn't yet known, but was extremely closely related to Guillain-Barré Syndrome, and that, instead of being healed in two weeks, that he would worsen for upwards of three weeks until medication could finally do anything and help him. Of course, medication couldn't always last, so, for some to-be-determined date, Yukimura would have to go to an operation room and be placed under.

Possibly sensing Sanada's loathing of the idea of Yukimura being cut open or hurt or worsened or anything, he quickly smiled calmly and evenly thanked Sanada for his attendance.

"I probably wouldn't've lasted this next week if you hadn't visited me," he said, his voice perfectly effortless and consoling.

What a lie, Sanada thought miserably. His buchou was strong and prideful, how could he have felt such a silly thing as dependence? Especially on _him_—Sanada had not done one helpful thing for Yukimura, aside from wrapping a pathetic scarf around his shaking body and rushing him to a hospital in a time that seemed to be slower than a school day. Perhaps Yukimura was just saying things that he thought would raise his spirits, since he was nice that way and wanted everyone to enjoy themselves.

He tried to waste away time and distract himself, so he asked Yukimura how his hospital visit had been so far. Smiling, he told him only uplifting things—how the regulars had all brought him presents and cheered him up, how his family was spending more time with him than ever, how his classmates had filled his windowsill with flowers and cards and teddy bears. Not once had he mentioned what Sanada had researched last night, what had made him feel so physically sick that he had almost thrown up.

He didn't mention how he had triggered this rare, one-in-five-hundred-thousand disease by having a simple stomach flu, he didn't mention how his immune system was currently attacking his own nerve cells, and how that was making his rapidly losing feeling in his arms and legs. He didn't talk about how weak this was making his immune system and how easily he could catch pneumonia, how he might actually never regain his entire reflexive ability, how there was no effective medicine for him, how the surgery has a sixty-six percent chance of failing. He didn't mention how the machines he was hooked up to was actually making sure the disease didn't spread to his heart and kill him, how he might have a relapse in a few years, how there was no certain cure.

He didn't mention it.

Remembering the words on his glowing computer screen and unable to contain himself, Sanada threw out his hand and touched Yukimura's ashen arm for a fleeting second. Unknowing, Yukimura kept on talking, still smiling and still reliving the moment in which Marui had said a particularly funny joke that Niou himself had acknowledged as '_hilarious_'. Unbelieving, Sanada touched Yukimura's arm once more, harder.

Yukimura glanced down briefly, as if a fly had landed on him. Then his smile vanished and he looked away from Sanada searching eyes, imperceptible touches of color tinting his cheeks. Embarrassed, he forced out his horrid confession that, true, for the past week, he had been unable to feel gentle sensations, such as small rises in heat, tiny smidgens of pain and soft brushes of anything. And it was getting worse, he told Sanada. His fingers couldn't register the difference between boiling water and ice water, and his feet didn't even feel as if they were attached to him any longer. In addition, he sighed, sounding as if he was reciting a lengthy document on National wars, his reflexive abilities were barely apparent, if they were there at all.

But when Sanada had thrown himself up from his seat, excusing himself for leaving abruptly, he smiled again, reassuring, despite his pallor and earlier confession of discomfort. "But you don't need to worry about that, Sanada. I know I'll recover, and we'll dominate the Nationals, together."

Regardless to say, Sanada didn't believe him.


End file.
